by Peter Albano
Brenda’s sigh released her tension. “Of course, Reginald.”
“Reggie.”
She laughed wryly. “I mean quite so, Reggie. Sounds like jolly good fun.”
They laughed into each other’s eyes.
As the Rolls approached the Chatham dockyard, which was on a protected inlet off the south shore of the Thames estuary, Brenda saw a bustling, boisterous facility, shoreline crowded with long gray buildings, docks crammed with ships. Across the inlet she could see the nearby isle of Sheppey and the Thames estuary. Bordering the north shore of the estuary nearly eleven miles to the northeast, the soaring cliffs of Southend on Sea were visible through the haze. Reginald tapped Caldwell’s shoulder and gestured at the main gatehouse. The chauffeur nodded and wheeled the big motor car to a stop.
“Collect us here at three, Caldwell,” Walter said as they stepped from the Rolls in front of the main gate.
“Right, sir,” the chauffeur said, tipping the visor of his black cap in brief salute.
Quickly, Reginald ushered Brenda and Walter into the gatehouse where a very young sublieutenant—obviously awed by the presence of Commander Reginald Hargreaves—snapped to ramrod attention and then politely indicated a guest register. Brenda and Walter sighed.
“Too bad Rebecca isn’t here,” Reginald said. “Feeling a bit under it. The grippe, she said.”
Walter muttered as he bent over the register, “Yes. I know.”
A rating opened a screen door at the back of the room and Reginald helped Brenda step up into the lower level of a double-decked bus parked in a narrow alley behind the gatehouse. And Brenda needed help, hobbled by the tight fit of her frock. Disliking the somberness of the usual black worn for mourning, she had selected a mauve open-fronted frock wrapped over and fastened at the side. It was a princess cut with a tightly belted midriff that flattered her small waist and set off the flare of her hips. Mourning was indicated by a diamond broach shaped in the form of an anchor and worn on the sleeve above a thin black silk band instead of being pinned to the round neckline. The mandatory hat was a soft white cloche with a black ribbon. She had felt visceral stirrings of excitement when Reginald first saw her on the Tudor porch, his eyes running over her body, the tip of his tongue dampening his lips. There was hunger there and he had not tried to disguise it.
“Sorry we can’t do better than this,” Reginald said, seating himself beside Brenda. “But it’s only a short ride to Pier Fourteen where my ship is docked.” Walter seated himself behind the pair. Within minutes, the vehicle was filled with boisterous, talkative sailors and Brenda realized they were seated in the front of the bus in comfortable upholstered seats with a half dozen officers while the enlisted men occupied the rear on hard wooden benches. Reginald exchanged greetings with two of the officers.
As the lorry lurched ahead with a roar of its engine, a clash of gears and billowing clouds of smoke, Brenda turned to Reginald. “It was so easy.”
“Easy?”
“Yes, Reggie. All we did was sign a book and we were allowed to enter his majesty’s dockyard.”
“You aren’t spies?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in mock horror.
She laughed. “Never can tell. I could have a wireless in my room.”
He smiled and held her eyes. “What goes on in Whitehall—the admiralty—is top secret.” He waved at the rows of warehouses and shops lining the narrow street. “But there isn’t anything here that Jerry doesn’t know about. Actually, I can have any guests I choose on board my ship.”
With a hiss of escaping air, the old vehicle came to a stop and Reginald said, “This is it.”
Helping Brenda down the high, steel stairs, he said, “She’s moored just around that warehouse.” He gestured at a long gray building.
Walking as fast as the frock would permit and flanked by the two men, Brenda walked around the huge building to Pier Fourteen. She found bedlam. The long pier was lined with warships, some moored singly and perhaps a dozen nested in groups of three and four. Huge cranes like pterodactyls crouched over some, lowering pallets of supplies, guns, equipment, and in some cases, metal plating. Motor lorries, hand- and horse-pulled carts were everywhere. Men were shouting, gesticulating, and cursing. Riveters pounded their hammers incessantly and saws ground and screeched.
Reginald waved and shouted over the din as he led them toward the end of the pier. “Building, repairing, provisioning, boiler descaling—do it all here.” He pointed to a low narrow ship tied up at the very end of the pier. “There she is, HMS Lancer.” There was pride in his voice.
In the last basin, Brenda saw a low, sleek vessel painted gray as all the others. Widely spaced, her two stacks were matched in size and height. The hull was long and graceful, the steel tower of the bridge jutting up just forward of the break in her deck line. She had two shielded guns that left their crews unprotected at the back—one on a high platform forward of the bridge and the other far aft on a raised mount. Against her dull gray paint, her pendant number, K 14, stood out in brilliant white just below the bridge. Hoses and wires snaked over her decks and a large group of workmen clustered around a jagged, blackened wound on her starboard quarter. There was much hammering and some cruelly bright lights glared.
“Those lights,” Brenda said, turning away.
“Don’t look,” Reginald cautioned. “A new technique the Royal Navy’s trying. It’s called welding. If plates aren’t too badly ripped, they can be joined with hot torches and flux. Saves an enormous amount of time, but it can hurt your eyes.”
“Welding isn’t new,” Walter said. “I know a smithy who has used it for years.”
“True,” Reginald said. “But it’s new to the Royal Navy.” He waved. “On this grand scale—on heavy plates and armor.”
Walter nodded. “I thought you had your aft funnel shot off,” he said.
“Got this jury-rig at Gib,” Reginald said. He waved toward the stern. “We’ll get a new four-inch gun for X mount when we go into dry dock. Another week. A bit of hull patching to do below the waterline and a bent frame or two.” He pointed amidships to a pair of long tubes between the funnels. “Two twenty-one-inch torpedoes.” He took Brenda by the arm. “This way to the accommodation ladder.”
As the trio approached the accommodation ladder, a small gangway with ropes rigged for handholds, men stepped aside and saluted as the captain passed. With Reginald leading and gripping the ropes on the shaky gangway, Brenda finally stepped on the steel quarterdeck of the warship.
Reginald saluted the colors and then answered the salutes of a young officer and two ratings who snapped to attention. One, a gnarled old chief petty officer with boatswain’s badges on his lapels, put a pipe to his mouth and blew a screeching salute reminiscent of a bagpipe out of control. Everyone stood rigidly until the dissonant, ear-piercing welcome ended and the pipe was dropped to the petty officer’s waist. “Captain Hargreaves,” the boatswain’s mate said, a broad grin spreading across his weathered and pockmarked face. “Welcome back, sir.”
“Good to see you again, Withers,” Reginald said, grasping the boatswain’s mate’s hand.
“You look well, sir,” Withers said. And then gesturing, he said, “This is Sublieutenant Trevor Grenfell. ‘E came aboard three days ago, Captain.”
“Sorry, sir,” the young officer said. “We didn’t know you were coming aboard. I would’ve assembled a side party. The last word was you were still in the hospital at Canterbury.”
“Captain’s on board!” the other rating shouted. Immediately, the cry was picked up by another man and another until it was carried to every corner and compartment of the ship. Brenda began to feel a strange new force—the camaraderie men felt when they served together in war; a closeness, a male bonding women suspected but could never know.
“I’m feeling well, thank you, Mister Grenfell,” Reginald said. He looked around. “Is Lieutenant Poc
hhammer on board?”
“He’s the OOW. He’s in the wardroom, sir.”
“Thank you.” Reginald turned to Brenda. “OOW—officer of the watch.” Brenda nodded understanding.
After a quick introduction to the young officer and the two enlisted men, Reginald led Brenda and Walter forward, cautioning his visitors whenever they encountered hoses and wires. Sailors were everywhere, chipping paint with hammers and scrapers, painting, working on motors, vents, the ship’s boat, guns. Reginald waved at some painters. “Rust. The cancer of the steel ship.”
On the quarterdeck a cluster of torpedo men hunched over a huge dismantled torpedo, oiling and adjusting the weapon’s intricate mechanisms. “Welcome aboard, Captain,” crewmen shouted, beaming and snapping to attention as the commander passed. Brenda heard choruses of “Hope you’re well, sir” and “Hurry back, sir.” And she felt eyes; scores of hungry eyes raking her from head to toe.
Reginald saluted and smiled, thanking the men and calling them out by their first names. Finally, they reached the break in the deck and the captain led them up a short, difficult ladder to the forecastle. Pausing at the bottom of the ladder, Brenda heard the sounds of nearby work slacken and she sensed more than saw a number of heads turn and the stare of dozens of curious, hot eyes. The eyes followed her relentlessly as she carefully manipulated her way up the steel steps. The ladder drove home a lesson: women’s clothes were not designed for ships; especially the princess cut, which hobbled her mercilessly. She hated cami-knickers but was happy she had had the foresight to wear a pair of the cumbersome knee-length undergarments. She smiled, thinking about the show she would be providing if she had worn a short teddy, which was her favorite choice for underwear. Suddenly, a sparkling mood of pleasure was on her and she was enjoying the sensation that the display of her figure was causing. Like most beautiful women, playing center stage did not completely repulse her. To feel attractive, to be the desired woman again brought a deep sense of contentment.
Reginald opened a door at the rear of the superstructure and held it open. Stepping over the coaming with her skirts held high, Brenda found herself in a steel passageway that spanned the superstructure from beam to beam. A half dozen doors led off both sides. After Reginald closed the door most of the pounding was mercifully closed out, replaced by ship’s sounds of fans and motors turning in the bowels of the vessel—in compartments far beneath their feet. There was the smell of tobacco smoke tinged with diesel oil.
Reginald stabbed a finger aft. “Wireless room, chart house, captain’s day cabin.” The finger moved to the bow and overhead. “Wheelhouse, forebridge, signal bridge, navigation bridge.” He gestured at a ladder in the middle of the passageway from which tobacco smoke sifted in thin strands. “Wardroom.” He smiled. “Come along. Some of my officers are aboard. I’ll introduce you. Fine lot.” He smiled happily as he led the way to the ladder.
The ladder was narrow and descended at a severe angle. Walter and Reginald were helpless to aid Brenda. Gripping the handrails, which were wrapped with cord and varnished, Brenda turned herself slightly to the side and descended very carefully, heels clattering on steel. With Walter close behind, she stepped off the last step into a large, carpeted compartment heavy with the smell of cigarettes. There was new paint everywhere, but the furniture looked old and battered. Two couches and two large black leather chairs occupied one side of the room and on the other side there was a dining area with a long table of polished oak, a sideboard, and an open hatch through which Brenda could see the galley. A small table in front of one of the chairs held an ash receiver heaped with stubbed-out cigarettes. Overhead in a clutter of pipes and conduits two deckheads hummed as their fans whirled while four open scuttles pierced the bulkheads to port and starboard. Despite the fans and scuttles, the air was stale. The light was dim, provided by four shielded bulbs hanging from the overhead and the light streaming through the scuttles. Two smiling officers stood at attention in the middle of the room.
“You’re looking fit, Captain,” noted one, an extremely tall and thin lieutenant with a large, hooked nose and tilted brown eyes that gave him a hawkish aspect. He had an enormous Adam’s apple that moved whenever he spoke as if his lunch had stuck in his throat.
The other, a very young lieutenant, was short and burly with a full shock of brown hair and coarse features. Surprisingly, his voice was soft and refined. “Yes, indeed, you look fit, sir,” he said, with an inflection that spoke of Northumberland. “Hope you’re free of the Canterbury meat locker,” the young officer added, dark eyes flashing with good humor. The officers all laughed and shook hands vigorously with the arcane communion known only to men who had shared the horror of imminent death and dismemberment together.
Reginald presented his officers: “First Lieutenant Stephen Pochhammer,” he said, gesturing to the tall, thin lieutenant. Pochhammer smiled at Brenda and his Adam’s apple worked as he shook Walter’s hand. “My ‘Number One,’” Reginald added. He answered Brenda’s quizzical look. “Stephen is my number one officer—second in command to me.”
“I see.”
The captain turned to the young sublieutenant. “Sublieutenant Ian Carpenter. My signals officer.”
“Such a young man,” Walter said, unable to conceal his surprise.
“Ah—we took casualties,” Reginald said. He beamed at Carpenter. “Filled in admirably—did a capital job. He’s up for lieutenant.”
“Thank you, sir,” the young man said, reddening.
Reginald gestured to the couch and chairs. “A tot? Relax for a moment?”
“Tea for me,” Brenda said, seating herself.
“Cognac,” Walter said, commanding a large leather chair.
“We have Three Star,” Reginald said. Walter nodded his approval.
The officers seated themselves and Reginald called out, “Fuller! Oliver Fuller!”
Immediately, a slender, balding, middle-aged chief steward in a white coat entered through swinging doors opening on the galley. He had obviously been listening. “Welcome back, sir,” he said with genuine affection in his eyes.
“Thank you,” the captain said. Quickly the drinks were ordered for the men and tea for Brenda.
“Do you mind if I smoke, Mrs. Higgins?” Pochhammer said, turning to Brenda.
Choking back her revulsion, Brenda forced a smile and nodded her approval. Immediately, Pochhammer and Carpenter pulled cigarettes from their tunic pockets, lighted them, and blew clouds of blue smoke into the air. Reginald did not smoke. Walter tapped a wad of tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, struck a match, and sagged back in the leather. Because he rarely smoked, Brenda knew Walter was either responding to the masculine ambience or deliberately trying to annoy her. Perhaps both.
Irritated, Brenda shifted her eyes from her father-in-law to a shiny brass plate mounted on the wall behind Pochhammer. “That shield,” she said, nodding. “A decoration?”
The first lieutenant turned his head. “Oh, that,” he said. “It’s the ship’s crest.”
He was interrupted by the steward who handed each man his drink and placed a silver service on a small table in front of Brenda. Pouring steaming tea into a white cup emblazoned with Lancer in gold letters, he asked, “Sugar, madam?”
“One lump, please.”
Reginald nodded at the shield. “Placed there by the builder.”
Brenda leaned forward and read the inscription, “HMS Lancer, Palmers Company, Jarrow-on-Tyne, nineteen twelve.” The remainder was in small, elaborate cursive lettering that she could not read. Squinting, she began to rise.
Reginald glanced at his officers and they all recited in unison, “’Plate sin with steel and the shaft of righteousness does pierce it.’”
Laughing, they raised their drinks. Then the officers and Walter touched glasses and drank.
“Mrs. Higgins,” the first lieutenant said, glancing at her badge of mour
ning. “May I ask?”
“Of course,” Brenda said. “My husband—Lieutenant Geoffry Higgins. He was in Lion.”
“At Jutland?”
“Yes.”
“I’m, sorry. I knew him. He was in gunnery. Right?”
“Why yes,” Brenda said, pleasantly surprised.
Pochhammer took a long drink. “I’m Volunteer Reserve, too. I met him at the Royal Naval College in oh-eight and we took gunnery classes at Portsmouth together in nineteen twelve.” He took a deep pull on his cigarette and exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. “Nice chap. I’m sorry.” He glanced at Walter. “Your son was a fine officer.”
“Up for the DSO,” Walter said proudly. “Saved the ship.” The men saluted the dead hero with a clink of glasses and drank. Walter held up his cup and Fuller recharged it.
Brenda turned to Reginald. “This ship is only four years old—built in nineteen twelve.”
“Quite so, Brenda.”
“Do you know, Reginald, you have told me very little about your ship?”
“Didn’t want to bore you,” the captain said.
“Tommy-rot,” Walter said, calling on jargon popularized by the men in the trenches. He gulped his drink. Wincing, the officers stared straight ahead.
Reginald waved a hand. “Lancer is the third of the K class.” He looked at Walter. “Nine hundred thirty-five tons, length two hundred seventy-six feet, two Parsons shaft turbines, twenty-four thousand five hundred shaft horsepower, thirty-one knots, three four-inch guns, two twenty-one-inch torpedo tubes, crew sixty-three men, nine officers.” He smiled at Brenda. “That’s the lot and Kaiser Willie knows it all.” Laughter swept the room.
“Your next duty?” Walter asked.
The laughter halted abruptly. “That, Walter, is something known only to a few officers at the admiralty.” The officers glanced at each other uncomfortably and Brenda knew Walter, in his usual boorish way, had touched a sensitive subject—a subject that was truly secret and he should have known better. Reginald turned to Stephen Pochhammer. “The condition of the ship?”
